


Dutch Courage

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Choking, Creampie, F/M, Office Sex, Rough Sex, Strong Language, Titus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: Reader's had her eye on the infamous captain for long enough. He's a man in his prime, and she wants that beef. Everyone knows red wine pairs well with hot blood...





	Dutch Courage

It had taken ten minutes longer to find him than it should’ve. For such a large man, and with the presence to match, he sure knew how to blend in. 

The Glaives were celebrating their twelfth year of establishment, and a recent victory near the Vesperpool. The hall had been decked out for the occasion; royal black silks wound around the pillars and arches, softening every stone edge. Titus Drautos was the commended man of the hour, and one you’d locked your sights on months before. After all, he was captain of the Glaive and more. He was formidable. 

A sharp laugh pierced the velvet silence of your thoughts. Luche shook his head at Tredd, who was still smirking at his own joke. His cheeks almost matched his hair as hazel eyes ran wild, drinking in every body that could potentially be debauched by the time the sun rose again. Heads were shaken at the young redhead, as usual. He’d only just survived this trip, the fresh scar on his cheek still an angry reminder of his hubris. 

You threw back the final, acrid mouthful of your glass and locked on him. He looked no less serious than usual in the blood red of his raiment, brooding over a glass that was far too full for his liking. After weaving through the surprising number of comrades that had returned, both relieved and suitably drunk, you found yourself facing a familiar chest. It rose and fell with all the measured purpose he had in everything.

“Captain,” you addressed, eyes lingering on his stubbled throat as your gaze crawled upwards. You met jade eyes and an indifferent expression. 

“Y/N.”

“Oh, we’re on first name basis now? Well in that case,” you raised your eyebrows, plucking another glass of dark wine from a passing comrade. “Good evening, Ti-.”

“What do you want?”

You frowned at him. He’d recovered well from the journey and was looking far sharper than he had during the mission. The darkening under his eyes had disappeared, beard trimmed back to stubble. This had been the mission that made him swear off entering the field again. From now on he was to remain behind the lines. Age was catching up with him. After considering your options, the six glasses of wine you’d had decided to make the decision for you. 

“Take me to bed, Titus,” you told him, bordering on a dare. His frown didn’t lift, but there was a new element in his eyes. Eagerness? Lust? Amusement? “I want you to both _take_ and _bed_ me.”

You sipped through your smirk, pleased by your own wordplay. When you glanced back up from your glass, he was watching you with exasperation. 

“Something wrong?”

“You’re drunk. It’s not-.”

“And you’re not drunk _enough_ ,” you took hold of his wrist, feeling his arm tense under your touch. You brought the hand holding his glass to his face and smiled gently, cheeks warm with wine. “Celebrate. We’re alive, Titus. Relax for once.”

“You forget who you’re talking to.”

He watched you over the rim of the glass that his large hand dwarfed. You finished yet another glass and set it down by the pillar he was leaning against. Despite being the most important man in the room, he looked as though he didn’t belong there. The fresh surge of alcohol made your head heavy as you focused on him and frowned. Frustration was setting in. 

“Oh, of course, my apologies,” you began, keeping your tone thick with mock grandeur. “Please, O Mighty Captain of the Glaive, the one and only Titus Drautos, _please_ take me to bed and do with me what you will. I am yours.”

You finished with your head leant back, throat exposed as drunken eyes focused on him. Nothing. He was completely unresponsive. Titus Drautos may as well have been a waxwork. You’d barely noticed his mouth moving when the deep rumble of his voice stole the air from your lungs. Usually you didn’t falter so easily, but the scent of his aftershave was cutting through your drunken senses. 

“That Furia boy’s been nothing but a bad influence on you. You used to have potential.”

“Potential’s a matter of opinion.”

“Wise words for a drunkard,” he mumbled as he finally took a sip. Your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple. “Potential exists to be proven.”

Your mouth was by under his ear before you could stop yourself, laced whispers disappearing into the inch between you.

“ _Let me_ prove it.”

He leant back, sea-green eyes finding yours. He didn’t break his gaze as he lifted the glass to his plump lips once more. The dark remnants of his wine disappeared behind those lips, staining them and passing down his throat with a thick swallow that made your mouth open. His skin moved smoothly under the stubble, completely at the whim of the rippling muscles it concealed. You’d made your decision. _By the end of the night, he’s going to have a fresh bruise to explain._

“Impress me.”

His invitation swam around your head, sinking in enough to make your eyes widen. A calloused hand gripped your wrist and practically dragged you away from the party.

The heavy oak door slammed shut with enough force to sober you momentarily. Being slammed against it only made you drunk again, lips chasing his skin as he sucked at your neck. Fumbling for his belt, you gave up and slipped your hand into his pants. The moment you brushed against the heat of his cock, his teeth sank into your neck. Sighing at the warning, you continued anyway. He broke away to give you a glare, pale green eyes glowing in the dark of his office. 

No wine could’ve loosened him enough to respond to your next move.

Your lips surged forwards, catching his in a ravenous kiss. He barely moved, letting you beg him without uttering a single plea. In a rare moment of sobriety, you pulled back for breath and were pinned under the predatory glare he wore like a threat. His fist pounded into the wood above your head with a curse. 

His lips were on yours. Insistent and forceful, you had little option but to allow his tongue to pass. Wine was sweeter from his mouth. Your tongue pressed against his, letting him taste the variety of wines you’d carelessly sampled. His kisses were starved. With every ebb and flow, he pulled at you bottom lip, or drew his tongue behind your teeth. The softness of his mouth was rare, but consuming. He wanted and he took, but he didn’t need this. He didn’t need you. The hand you’d left forgotten in his pants absently traced down, warm fingertips tracing against his hardening cock. 

“Titus,” you whispered during a rare moment he allowed you to breathe. He shook his head a little before withdrawing his hands to remove the heavy leather jerkin and the pale linen he wore underneath. Too drunk to take initiative, you fixed on the broad, scarred chest that filled your view. It was as faintly tanned as the rest of him, a faint dusting of dark chest hair tickling under your touch as your own hands came up to touch him. You were only jolted from the map of his skin when the chainmail of his raiment hit the stone floor. His breathing slowed as curious fingertips passed over his skin. He watched them map the canyons of his scars, the rise and fall of his muscles. He rippled with every breath. Pure power. 

It was sobering enough for you to look up at him with slightly intimidated eyes. He smirked and breathed a laugh, large hands already working at his belt. After a moment, your mind caught up with his and you began to shrug off your uniform. You’d barely unbuttoned the jacket when your hands were pinned above your head. 

He glared down at you, oozing discipline. His free hand worked to drag the fabric away, fighting your clothes for possession of your skin. The cool air of his office hit your bared shoulder, throwing you back into sobriety. This was your captain, your superior. He could have you dismissed for this. The heat of his breath fanning over your skin washed the thoughts away. His teeth grazed over your collarbone, biting down in places as your hands clenched in his grip. It was only then you noticed the strong thigh between your own. 

Alcohol was a wonderful thing. If you’d been any less drunk, you wouldn’t have dared to part your legs further, to hook his calf with yours and to grind against him in the desperate need for friction. He stilled and gave you another sobering glare. Strong hands gripped your waist and steered you further into the room. 

You’d barely felt the back of the desk at your thighs when he stopped. He dragged the jacket and shirt from you before whipping your pants down with a sharp tug. Your skin burned against the still air of the office. His eyes drank in your form, lingering on curves as he formulated a battle plan. He lifted you up and set you on the desk, spreading your legs with the breadth of his hips.

Hungry fingertips dug into your thighs. Your back arched to grind against him, desperate for friction and fulfilment. He denied you.

“Y/N.”

The depth of his tone immediately commanded your focus. He took greedy handfuls of your hips, squeezing you for your full attention.

“What?”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t tease me, Titus. It’s not fair,” you whined, reaching forward to grasp him in your hand. Your fingers could barely wrap around the girth of him. There was a ridge to him, unlike other men. You glanced at him in the dark, catching a glimpse of a scar that ran across the upper side of his shaft.

His hulking torso was half cast into darkness, half illuminated by a bright moon. Duality was a new feature. He’d only ever been your captain; a man who drove you to fight and survive, to endure and carry on at his instruction. 

Now he was a man who waited on your word. A man who stood before you with no other goal than to please and be pleased, and your throat was in his hand.

“I want to hear you say it,” he growled, breath hitching as your ran a fingertip over the head of his cock. It was half command, half plea. 

A drunken smirk graced your lips. You tangled your hands in the short, thick mess of his hair. It was surprisingly soft, shifting between your finger obediently. Tugging his head down, you hooked your ankles behind his back, revelling in the heat of his flesh. “Titus…please. Fuck me.”

He pressed against you and rutted against your clit, coating himself in the slickness only a dizzying combination of wine and your prized captain could give you. One of his hands left your hip, gliding over your skin as he moved to delve between your folds. 

“Don’t you dare fucking tease me,” you hissed. 

His fingertips withdrew from your entrance.

“So ambitious,” he mused, pressing his wetted fingers against your lips. 

Your drunken tongue slipped out and obediently licked your essence away from him. Something clouded his eyes then, making deep green hues flash dangerously with lightning. You pulled him closer again, arms hanging limply around his neck. He pressed the head against you before sinking in.

“Oh _fuck,”_ you whimpered as he stretched you. _Formidable indeed._ “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_

His gaze had fixed down, watching as he disappeared into the soft welcome of your heat. A satisfied grunt left his mouth when you yelped. He’d reached his limits and gone beyond yours. His head fell back, Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously beneath a darkly stubbled throat and strong jaw. 

He hissed as he pulled out, painfully slowly and dragging you with him. That scar of his only added to the sensation, dragging against you and rubbing against a sensitive patch on your inner walls. You keened, legs tightening to bring him back in. The sting of his forceful second thrust was sobering. Your world was crystal clear and here you were, fucking your captain like it was the done thing.

Before you could get caught up, he picked his rhythm; deep, hard thrusts and agonizingly slow withdrawals. Needing more and teeth gritted in need, you rolled your hips against him, coaxing him to pick up the pace. Every move he made against you broke your breathing a little more, ebbing pain into pleasure. Still, he was going easy on you. 

“T-Titus, please,” you locked eyes with him. The green had darkened to an evening forest and you lost yourself in it within seconds. “Harder, _please_.”

He smirked and held onto your waist with a bruising grasp. The snap of his hips was enough to make you breathless for first few beats of this new rhythm, only breaking back with a loud, low moan. Your hand searched for purchase in his hair, at his jaw where stubble scratched your palms. He pounded into you with a rough grunt, hissing in pleasure and pain as your nails dragged down his chest, painting his skin with angry red welts. Nothing compared to the scars they crossed.

Your breath only hitched, turning into whines and gasps as he fucked you against his own firm grip, pulling you against him with every bruising thrust. 

“Hard enough?” he growled. Your head was shaking before you could stop it.

“F-fuck no! Harder!”

The smirk grew into a keen grin, bordering menacing. Intoxicated by skin, sweat and sex, your grip on reality was fading. The wine had left you in the favour of a new thrill, a new looseness to your being. A calloused hand took your throat, thumb and forefinger tilting your jaw to his liking. He pushed you down until you were flat against the desk, pinned there by his unrelenting hand around your neck. 

Your back arched into his thrusts. Each and every time he bottomed out, he forced another high moan from you, matched by his own guttural rasps of satisfaction. He was squeezing harder, choking you until you could barely whine. The side of him bathed in moonlight began to fade. In the dim light of his office, the darkness swelled and swallowed the two of you. Your consciousness was slipping until all that existed was the tying knot in your gut that strained with every fevered press of his hips, and his name formed on your lips in silence. Your grip on his arm failed, hands slipping away limply.

His hand loosened but stayed warm and heavy on your throat. You filled your lungs with the dizzying scents of sex, wine and Titus. His eyes were racing over you, watching every inch of skin react to his jarring thrusts. The way you whined his name only drove him on.

“I-I’m gonna-!”

His grip tightened again, dangerously close to cracking the cartilage of your throat. He locked on you with all the intensity he showed in battle but muted off the field. The maddening he’d have to leave behind.

“When I say, and _only_ then.”

You tried to nod but struggled to move. Drunk on lust, your eyes followed the lines of his bare arm, all the way up to the hard expression he wore with heat.

“Good,” he breathed. 

His movements turned choppy and beyond forceful. You cried out with each one, choking on his name. Eyes drifting shut, he groaned roughly at the ceiling. When he looked back at you, there was a feral glint in them. Sweat polished his brow, short hair mussed and cheeks beginning to flush with wine and sex, he nodded. 

“Come for me.”

The command was the final straw. His fingers bruised your hips as you writhed underneath him. In an explosive tensing of muscle, you almost screamed his name into the quiet of the room; a smooth and desperate note over the slapping of skin against skin. You were drowning in oblivion, feeling it fill your lungs and soften every fighting fibre of your body.

You clawed at his chest as you drifted back down from your high. Still twitching with aftershocks, his hips slammed into you with finality. He roared through gritted teeth, head thrown back in ecstasy as he came. Buried deep, you could feel his cock twitch as he spilled, filling you with burning essence. His hips stilled, that damned Adam’s apple bobbing again as he swallowed, panting back to reality. He shook the final cloud of euphoria from his head and looked down at you.

“Impressive.”

Still speechless, you managed a weak nod. His hands took a softer grip on your sides, cupping your hipbones as he drew out. You whined at his absence, suddenly feeling colder and no less helpless. You were utterly boneless, aching and only warm in the places forced to bloom with bruises. The flush of your cheeks and chest burned against the cool night air. You sighed at the silken feel of his release slipping from you. 

Your breath hitched when the calloused pad of his thumb pressed against you. He watched, completely entranced, as he spread his come over you. The free movement of his thumb swirling over your clit made your back arch again. 

Still facing down, his eyes flicked up to capture you in the coy summer green of his hues. Mussed, flushed and smirking slightly, he looked ten years younger. He looked his age.

“Again?” He tilted his head, skimming his other hand over your thigh. “I’m sure our absence has been-.”

“They won’t miss us,” you blurted. 

He watched you for a moment, completely lost in his own thoughts. Then, of all things, he smiled. A full, satisfied smile spread across his wine-stained lips. The laugh that rumbled from his chest was completely unexpected. It was deep and rich; smooth. You’d never heard it before and suddenly you were mentally cursing him for hiding it. There was no malicious undertone; it was just his laugh. He’d felt free enough to share it, and with you. Debauchery had its benefits.

“Alright then,” he said, dragging his fingertips down your sides, lightly enough to make you flinch away from the threatening touch. “Impress me again.”


End file.
